Colombian Necktie

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Sky Wikluh “Balcan Sex God”

Note to self…

No more fucking messing, it’s high time we get shit started
Obituaries suck hardest for the recently departed
Lion-hearted I may be but death it ain’t so choosy
Eeny, meeny, miny, moe – do hope it doesn’t choose me
Cruise me in the red room, you’ll be pulling back a bloody stump
And don’t you dare declare that you were checking me for fucking lumps
Know of my afflictions and the damage I’m inflicting is predicting bitter end unless I whip up a petition
Nothing quite so la-di-da as lengthy referendum
Got the mic, can split the bars and formulate a sentence
Juggling the flow in manner no less than stupendous
Swooping low to decimate stool pigeons
Got my gunwalk down, know where to find out all the snitches
Started up a garage band, we’re called The Sons o’ Bitches
A little bird once told me through the art of Chinese whisper
You’re about to leave Las Vegas son and the strip ain’t gonna miss ya

No more fucking messing, leave the stressing for attorneys
But this ain’t time for lag or else it’s toe-tag, bag and gurney
Need myself some Bert quick, never really trusted Ernie
Give it to me straight doc, is disaster getting flirty
If I do live to be thirty then we may have snagged a paradox
Not getting any younger, got the germ not fucking chicken pox
Cuties still get cooties and the booty call’s on me
Unless I pop my collar, holler back and strap my lucky piece
Plucky I may be but this could all abruptly cease unless I work on clutch release and flee the scene at demon speed
Should indeed I hold the chieftaincy
Then I guess the decent thing would be to lead by own example
Alas, a less than charmed endeavor with a matching pair of severed metatarsals
This could wind up resulting in court-martial
And goddamn right I’m out of sight to be impartial

No more fucking messing, ain’t nobody got time for that
Running out of slack Jack, making double backs like Pac-Man
Erratic jazz hands like a scat man, sweating bullets like a fat man
This way, that way, highway, no way
Rather go my own way, call my own play, have my own say
Having played the waiting game too long, I’d hate to lose the will
At any rate, this date with fate arrived too late to seal the deal
Already greased my wheels and cut a deal to launch my own appeal
Not to play the villain, but to quote the words of Dylan
How long can you falsify, deny what is real
How long can you hate yourself for weakness you conceal
I swear that dude jams in my cranium you know
And judging by the ruckus, I would say he ain’t alone

No more fucking messing, time for yours truly to set the tone
This place is wired to kingdom come, and rumor has it, set to blow
Long cold winters take no prisoners, chest infections never less than ever-present threats unless addressed with stressed importance
There’s tapping out like morse, of course
A morbid thought for fuck-all food
Do that and I’m fucking screwed
So excuse me if I’m fucking rude
But much ado ain’t nothing new when buffing shoes for shillings
With the sum of these skills, I could run for the hills
And make a fucking killing
Never less than willing and, last time I clocked, still able
To go all-in before the flop and play the fucking table
Hit the river wild and woe betide the tide that turns its tricks
Never been a gambler, more your Boston Strangler kind of sick
Thinking quick when sinking fast, blinking not to glance the past
Drinking gin and juice to pass the time until its happy hour
Could attack and you don’t want that
Time to snap, I’ve got the goddamn power

No more fucking messing, if I’m ending then I’m trending on a high note
Gonna step in the arena, leaner, meaner, prima fucking ballerina
Too old for this shit by far and far too young to die yo
Running out of time though
Survival hopes are so-so
If I don’t go full ballistic, then I’m bluffing the statistics
Bet on black, I’ll fucking risk it
Hard to shake that inner misfit
Grab a slice of mystic pizza
Watch me practise like a preacher
Fuck it, bust out the Aretha
R-E-S-P-E-C-T for starters
Find out what it means to me
And earn it like my motherfucking forefathers
No one to impress as I express myself to rescue me
Only I can break the code and vogue like it’s my destiny
Not that this is all about me, on the contrary
Give it all for love you see and that includes the best of me
As that’s the only part of me I wish to give you see
But I’m the only straight up G with the elbow grease to make shit cease
Grab myself that golden fleece
Fuck the police, sign my own release
Got my gunwalk down, won’t be around to feed to meter
Started a new garage band, we’re called The Sons o’ Preachers
A little bird once told me through the art of Chinese whisper
Welcome to Las Vegas son, the strip has fucking missed ya

Richard Charles Stevens

Keeper of The Crimson Quill

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